


A Little Domestic

by second_skin



Series: Mystrade Forever (Romance) [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Judy Garland - Freeform, Laundry, Lestrade Sings in the Shower, M/M, Mycroft Has Cold Feet and a Warm Heart, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Two episodes in Mycroft's love life, and an excess of fluff.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Inspired by a fuchsia shirt sometimes worn by Mark Gatiss.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Domestic

**Author's Note:**

> _Betaed so kindly by fengirl88._   
>  _Written for the 2011 Spring into Sherlock Fest on LJ for the prompt "fresh linens._   
>  _Posted under old pseud; reposting under new._

Soon after baby Sherlock arrived, Mycroft began spending all his free time, before and after his lessons, in the kitchen helping Adele make bread and cakes or following Lucy about while she tidied the house.

Lucy was nineteen. She had a lot of freckles and thought Mycroft was the cleverest little boy she’d ever met. She thought babies like Sherlock were _loud, messy,_ and _boring_.

Lucy was the first person to whom Mycroft Holmes proposed marriage.

She insisted on a long engagement--putting off the wedding until he was at least ten.

One of Mycroft’s favorite tasks was making up the beds with fresh linens on Mondays. He and his fiancee unfurled the crisp white sheets together, holding the corners tight and flapping their arms to make billowing tents and parachutes.

Mummy said anything other than white sheets was just a vulgar display.

Lucy showed Mycroft how to smooth the sheets and blankets and keep the corners sharp and tucked-in just so.

“The keys to happiness are warm feet and a cool head, Mycroft,” she explained. “So tuck the whole lot in very tight down at the foot of the bed. And when you wake up afraid in the middle of the night, turn your pillow over so your cheek rests against the coolness. That will give you peaceful dreams.”

 

****

 

Greg stood at the foot of the bed in his dressing gown, rubbing a towel through his hair and frowning until Mycroft finally looked up from the papers strewn across the duvet to ask, “Something wrong?”

“Are those new sheets?”

Mycroft glanced over the top of his reading glasses. “I didn’t expect you to notice. You’re usually so oblivious to domestic niceties. I got them on the trip to Belgium last week.”

“Are they . . . um . . . What would you call that? Pink?”

Mycroft gathered his papers and deposited them in a folder, trying not to smile. “The label says _azalea,_ or you could say, _fuchsia,_ if you prefer.”

“Aren’t they a little . . . ?”

“A little what?”

“A little . . . loud?”

“Asks the man bellowing _Judy at Carnegie Hall_ at the top of his lungs in the shower? If you think you’re too manly for pink sheets, Inspector . . .”

Greg pulled the folder from Mycroft’s hands and dropped it onto the carpet next to the bed. The D.I. then pushed his nose into the dimple at the base of his beloved’s throat and planted half a dozen kisses along his collarbone. “Well, I _am_ very manly, as you know, but you win. The sheets are fine,” he whispered.

Nuzzling closer and entwining their legs, Greg took a deep breath and said, “We have to talk, Mycroft.”

“Do we?”

“I really can’t take it anymore, you know.”

“Greg, the keys to happiness are warm feet and a cool head.”

“Oh Christ, not again. Who was Lucy, anyway, the Dalai Lama’s sister?”

“Had things only gone according to plan, I’d be her husband right now, not yours, my dear.” Mycroft attempted a look of anguish and regret, but was betrayed by one corner of his mouth, which insisted on twisting up into half a smile.

“Yeah, and I’m sure she would have loved your bloody Hello Kitty sheets.” Greg shot back, pinching Mycroft’s left nipple to ensure the man was paying attention. “Seriously, Mycroft, I know we swore we wouldn’t try to change each other, but I’m begging you. Just one night. Please?”

Mycroft looked unconvinced, but his objections were difficult to articulate with Greg’s warm breath on his neck. _Why did he smell so intoxicating? Had he showered in cake batter?_

Greg’s tongue teased the shell of Mycroft’s ear and his teeth nipped the lobe. Fingernails tickled the soft, ginger hair on Mycroft’s chest, and then a thumb lazily circled the tip of his penis.

Mycroft made noises of surrender and wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist. “All right. One night, and then we’ll assess the situation.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Mycroft sat up and reached under the sheets towards his feet.

Greg put a hand on his husband’s wrist. “I want to watch.”

“Pervert.”

“Damn right,” growled the D.I. as he tugged Mycroft nearer for a long, delicious kiss.

Breathless all of a sudden, Mycroft pulled his feet from beneath the covers and slowly removed his thick, black wool socks--first the left and then the right--tossing them dramatically across the room. Then he slipped his feet back where they came from and flopped onto the goose down pillows.

“I’ve worn wool socks to bed every night for forty years, Inspector. There will be hell to pay if my feet are cold in the morning.”

Greg slipped his hand around the nape of Mycroft’s neck, lifted his head just enough to flip the pillow over, then gently turned Mycroft’s cheek to rest on the cool, pink Egyptian cotton.

“Pleasant dreams, My.”

And with a wink, Greg ducked his head under the sheets to warm Mycroft’s feet, and set the rest of him on fire.

 


End file.
